


Afternoon Tea

by TammyCat



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Drugged Sherlock, First Meetings, Flirting, M/M, Office Sex, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, pre-John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-13
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-09 19:55:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15275046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TammyCat/pseuds/TammyCat
Summary: Every afternoon tea should come with the chance of meeting a handsome stranger.





	1. Chapter 1

Settled into his usual chair in the front corner of his favourite café, half hidden from the outside world by delicate lace curtains while still being able to observe it all at his leisure, Mycroft was practically radiating contentment. He had a cup of tea, a decadent pastry, a selection of newspapers, no meetings until after lunch and he hadn’t heard anything from his brother in over a week, the day was simply delightful.

Usually no news would have him on edge, waiting for the next explosion of Sherlock-shaped chaos; however the recently instated surveillance on his wayward brother had proven to be extremely effective in keeping tabs on his activities and whereabouts. They had been instructed to inform him only when Sherlock was in danger or causing serious trouble.

No alerts from them meant that his little brother was behaving himself for the time being, or at least keeping a low profile. Either way, there was nothing for Mycroft to fret about.

Flicking open his first newspaper Mycroft considered his later meetings, he would have to ruffle some feathers in the first one and smooth others in the second, the third and fourth were going to require a mixture of subtle intimidation and manipulation. By the time he headed home for the evening he should have secured funding for the next round of surveillance upgrades around the city as well as unsaid permission to excite further turbulence in a not to be discussed South American location.

It should all be very productive and satisfying.

He stopped to read a story on the increase in youth violence and shook his head. Too many young minds wasting away due to insufficient educational resources and uninterested educators. What are the restless and hormonally charged to do without effective leadership and, perceived, strict boundaries? The same as many others in their position throughout history; revolt.

He mused over his own rebellious phase, the messily spiked hair, combat boots and ill-considered earring. It had lasted all of three months before he saw just how frivolous his attempt was, fighting the constraints of his youth wouldn’t get him far.

Using those limitations, testing and surpassing them, helped guide him through the world he would eventually swim with ease. His youthful idealism aided him in identifying the places where change could be enacted and the best way to implement his plans.

He reached up and idly fingered the little node of scar tissue in his right lobe. It had been a spontaneous and stupid decision, like most at the ripe old age of sixteen; but he’d been so desperate to find a place in the world that didn’t look like his parents’.

Almost three decades later and he looked nothing like the faux-punk with his shiny silver earring. He looked nothing like his parents either, both of them bookish and inclined towards cardigans and slip-on shoes.

Lowering the newspaper to the table, Mycroft took a bite of the wonderfully sweet pear and peach Danish, appreciating the smooth layer of vanilla custard hidden beneath the slices of fruit. His indulgence would earn him a couple of hours on the treadmill and a week of salads and lean meats but it was worth doing once every few months to remind him what pleasure was.

His lightly sweetened Earl Grey tea was a perfect companion to his pastry and settled warmly in his stomach.

Perhaps he would investigate some new leadership or engagement programs for the restless young to channel their furore into. The world needed more industry leaders that wanted to make changes and had the drive to see it through. Perhaps he would look into some of the ideas he’d developed during his rebellion, a few of them may be able to be implemented now.

He messaged Anthea with a request to organise a meeting with the Education Minister, something she would do once her morning of ease was complete as well.

Flicking through the newspaper once more, Mycroft was met with sensational international news of an idiotic leader and his latest attempt to run his country into the ground. Mycroft only just held back from rolling his eyes and made a mental note to reach out to his contacts across the pond, see if they required any aid in marshalling the rampant sewage that was spewing forth from their leader. No names of course.

The financial pages held little news for him, just as the sports section held no interest. He folded the newspaper and set it aside, taking a bite from his pastry and turning his attention to the world outside.

From his position he could clearly see both sides of the street and the entrance of the cafe, anyone looking in would only see his hands and the contents of the table. Mycroft enjoyed using these moments to flex his skills on potentially more interesting targets than politicians and ambassadors.

A woman walking a dog that wasn’t hers, she resented having to care for it. That relationship would be over soon.

A young couple holding hands, in the blissful honeymoon period of their relationship. He didn’t know that she was planning on leaving the city and possibly not returning.

A silver-haired man exiting a car, on business but not provided all the details on where he needed to be.

A tradesman hurrying down the road was heading back to work from a span of leave. Injury? No, infant.

Mycroft sipped at his tea and lamented the state of his own social life. Each one of the people outside had meaningful relationships, someone to talk to about the hellish day they had at work or a family member they could unburden to, friends at the very least to encourage them to behave mildly irresponsibly on the odd occasion.

Mycroft had a strained relationship with his family, no lover to speak of and the closest thing he had to a friend was actively avoiding him as she indulged in a spa therapy while he ate carbohydrates.

Returning his attention to the outside world, Mycroft saw that only the silver-haired man remained, all of the others replaced with new faces. He wondered what the man was looking for, it was work related obviously from the way he adjusted his tie and barked into the phone he was now holding. He was a policeman, Mycroft realised as he paid closer attention, a detective of sorts. He was handsome, fairly tall, broad shoulders, neat appearance - one of those good men one could bring home to mother.

Mycroft licked a speck of flaky pastry from his lip. He definitely wouldn’t mind bringing the man home, not to Mummy though.

Smirking against his teacup, Mycroft acknowledged that it might be time to consider a new liaison, find a man to ease the stress of his workdays. It had been several months since his last indiscretion; something Anthea had reminded him of only a few days ago.

He wondered briefly if he could tempt the handsome cop into his bed for a torrid affair, releasing him after a few weeks once the itch had passed.

He shook his head at his own silliness and picked up the next newspaper, a German one that focused mainly on the technological developments coming out. It was always interesting to see what filtered through from government funded research into the mainstream for consumption.

The bell over the cafe's door chimed and Mycroft spared a single flick of his eyes just to ensure it wasn’t someone he knew; this time was sacred and he wouldn’t sacrifice it for banal small talk.

Interesting, it was the handsome police detective. Did he require a coffee? A danish? An enthusiastic blowjob in the loo?

Smiling to himself again, Mycroft lifted the paper until most of his face was hidden and he could watch the man discreetly. It certainly wouldn’t be a hardship to be on his knees for a man like that. He could just imagine the firm hand in his hair, guiding but not forcing as Mycroft sucked him off. The detective might even be the type to talk or make noise while being pleasured, what a treat that would be.

The man was talking to the waitress; his solid frame delightfully displayed for Mycroft’s viewing pleasure. Strong legs, round arse, wide shoulders and a wealth of sophisticated grey hair. Yes, Mycroft would enjoy taking his time learning each inch of that body, in his mind the man was interesting and dirty in all the right ways.

Mycroft inched the newspaper higher as the waitress pointed in his direction, not wanting to be seen gawking from across the room. Whatever the man was here for it wasn’t to be leered at by himself. Mycroft could happily wait until the man’s back was to him once again before continuing to fantasize about getting his trousers off.

He focused on attempting to read an article on advanced AI in personal robots when a nicely toned voice intruded and Mycroft’s stomach flipped.

“Mr. Holmes?”

Hoping that he hadn’t flushed bright red, Mycroft slowly lowered the paper, his handsome policeman stood on the other side of the table.

“Yes?” He let his eyes play over the man’s exceptional features before straying down his body leisurely and roving back up again. “Can I help you, detective?”

A surprised look cross his face along with a faint blush. Lovely. “I’m sorry to interrupt you, sir, but it’s about your brother.”

Mycroft closed the paper with a sigh and motioned to the vacant chair. “Please take a seat, Mr…”

“Lestrade. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.”

Interesting. “Detective Inspector Lestrade, tell me what my brother has done now.”

The chair was quickly claimed and Mycroft waved over the waitress.

“He was found disturbing a crime scene and withholding evidence.” Detective Lestrade said as he shrugged out of his coat.

Mycroft was going to sack the fools monitoring his brother. “I imagine you have him in a holding cell at the moment?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like a coffee or tea, detective? Perhaps a pastry?”

“What?”

Mycroft waved a hand at his own repast as a response.

Lestrade frowned. “Mr. Holmes your brother is being held on serious charges.”

“Yes, and I’m certain he will be fine for a few hours before he becomes a complete nuisance. Certainly long enough for you to have a drink and cake before having to deal with him once more.”

The waitress appeared and Lestrade hesitantly ordered a coffee and croissant. Mycroft ordered a fresh cup of tea and an apple & walnut muffin, his danish was almost finished and he could always add a few hours to his exercise regime to pay for the extra indulgence.

He studied the detective carefully and found a few things he’d missed while they had been separated by a street; the fading pale band on his left ring finger, a faint scar on his right temple and a set of three dimples on his left ear, ghosts of long-forgotten earrings.

Mycroft immediately envisioned a youthful Lestrade, charming smile and wrapped in the leather and spikes of their punk-esque pasts. The look would have suited Gregory superbly. He saw the earrings, a fine chain linking two of the studs. The young man had probably owned a motorcycle of some sort, nothing too flashy but something he’d been proud to cause trouble on.

“How did you find me, Detective Inspector?”

“You’re assistant said that she was too indisposed to deal with us but we could find you here if it was urgent.”

Harpy.

“She is at a spa, I imagine she would have been quite cross when disturbed.”

Lestrade grinned. “Yeah, especially when my Sergeant had to call her back for the address.”

Mycroft smirked in return; Anthea would have her revenge for being bothered on this rare day.

“Yes, we tend to hoard our quiet hours quite fiercely, infrequent as they are.”

A quick bloom of colour flashed on Lestrade’s cheekbones. “I’m sorry for disturbing you, Mr. Holmes, but it was necessary.”

He nodded. “It usually is when my brother is involved. What exactly did Sherlock do?”

“He was caught on security footage fleeing a murder scene before it had been called in. We located your brother but not whatever he took. As his legal contact, and family, I’m hoping you will be able to talk him into returning the evidence.”

The waitress returned with their orders and left with a lingering smile for the police officer. The woman had good taste and a higher chance at gaining access to the man’s trousers than Mycroft did.

Sliding the small muffin plate towards him, Mycroft allowed himself a brief illusion of sharing a morning repast with a treasured companion, sharing smiles and twining legs beneath the table. The brush of fingers over his as they both reached for some delicacy, subtle heat in dark eyes that spoke of musk and sweat and pleasure.

“Mr. Holmes?”

Mycroft sighed as he was drawn back into the café; unfortunately it was always destined to be a short-lived dream. The muffin stared back at him with the reminder that hours on the treadmill would be required rather than hours in bed.

“Has he been charged with the murder?”

“Not yet.”

He wiped his fingers on a napkin. “Talking my brother into anything is a fool’s errand. He is stubborn and once his mind is set on a course of action it can be impossible to shift, without the right leverage.”

Detective Inspector tore off a section of croissant and smirked. “Do you have that leverage, Mr. Holmes?”

Gaze caught by the flakes of buttery pasty sticking to solid fingers, Mycroft watched as the man popped the piece into his mouth. He was only distantly aware of his tongue sliding along his lip, entranced by the sight of rough fingertips and delicate pastry.

Mycroft’s eyes jumped up the short distance to Lestrade’s, heat blooming on his own cheeks as he realised he’d been caught staring at the man’s mouth. Brown eyes gleamed, dark and smooth like the aged mahogany of his desk.

“I have a variety of leverage points, Detective Inspector.”

Lestrade’s brow rose in interest and grinned as he ripped more croissant free.

Mycroft studiously avoided watching this piece, breaking his muffin in half as a distraction. “If you can give me a couple of hours I will see what I can find out regarding my brother’s motives and retrieving your evidence.”

“Aren’t you going to come see him?”

He grimaced lightly. “I don’t believe that will get results, our relationship isn’t particularly close and he would consider it an invasion of his freedoms if I barged in while he was enjoying being locked away.”

“Enjoying? He’s done nothing but complain.”

Mycroft smiled. “Welcome to dealing with Sherlock, he’s a menace. He enjoys being a menace. I would suggest keeping him away from your forensics team.”

“Why?”

“He has an insatiable curiosity and minimal understanding of boundaries.” Mycroft regarded the mess of muffin on his plate. “He is likely to badger them until they do what he wants or tell them some very unfortunate facts about themselves.”

“He’s already done that.”

The disgruntled frown on Lestrade’s face told him that the Detective Inspector had been one of Sherlock’s victims. Mycroft wondered idly if his brother had picked up the same things he saw in the man.

“He has an extraordinary mind and cannot help himself showing off for a fresh audience. His deductive skills were nurtured as a child and caused all sorts of trouble when in company.”

Lestrade leaned back in his chair. “You sound almost proud of that.”

Mycroft allowed himself to smile a little, the precocious child Sherlock had been scampered through his memories. “I suppose I am. One does like to impart skills and knowledge to those that come after us.”

“Can you do it too?”

“Yes.”

The man grinned. “Go on, what do you see?”

What did Sherlock tell you? Mycroft let his eyes roam over him, taking his time and absorbing the image in front of him as much as possible. Did he mention the penchant for recklessness or the ingrained need to help people? He might have brought up your cheating ex-spouse or the lack of romantic life you currently endure. Six months divorced, a few brief liaisons but mostly your right hand for company. Both, interesting.

“You have been in the police force since late youth, perhaps early twenties. Prior to that you were inclined to a more punk-ish appearance. You signed your divorce papers no more than six months ago but your wedding ring has been missing for almost a year. The separation was your decision, no doubt based on the philandering actions of your spouse.”

It was a risk, bringing up the cheating partner. It tended to make people emotional or defensive as if it reflected badly on them and not the guilty party.

“Spouse? Sherlock was more precise.”

Mycroft grinned lightly. “Spouse leaves the option open for either a male or female partner. As you masturbate with both hands, the left presumably fingering yourself, it is not beyond the realm of possibility that your spouse could have been a man.”

He rather liked the deep red blush that spread across the man’s face and continued. “Although considering the depth of the tan line on your left knuckle, I would guess that you were married for ten or more years; the social expectations of that time and figuring that you would be aiming for promotions while in an industry that has not always been particularly kind to those of homosexual or bisexual orientation, it is far more likely that your partner was female.”

Mycroft picked up his tea and sipped it as Lestrade digested his words. The scarlet stain hadn’t diminished yet and he was quite fetching with the extra colour in his cheeks, it made Mycroft wonder if it would look even more fetching amongst twisted sheets.

“Does that sate your curiosity, Detective?”

There was a tense moment before the man spoke. “You’re better than him at that.”

Mycroft shrugged one shoulder. “I didn’t teach him all my tricks, just enough to be a nuisance to our parents when I wanted to be left alone.”

“Happen a lot?’

“More than our parents appreciated.” He smirked and sipped his tea. “I hope I haven’t made you uncomfortable.”

The red still hadn’t faded from the man’s face, remaining high along his cheekbones. “No… well, I can’t say I’ve ever had my life stripped open over tea before.”

Not the only thing I could strip. Mycroft though with a subtle glance at the collar of the man’s rumpled shirt.

“I will try not to do so again, I understand that it can be quite confronting.”

“I wish your brother shared your restraint.”

“A common sentiment, I’m sure.”

Lestrade grinned again and slipped the final section of his croissant into his mouth. Mycroft was held captive by the sight once more. Surely it was unnatural to be able to bewitch a person with just an inch of pastry.

The moment was broken by the ringing of the detective’s phone. He looked apologetic as he answered with a brief, “Lestrade.”.

If questioned later, Mycroft would emphatically deny being fascinated by the play of emotion on the man’s face. As he sat there with his cooling tea, Mycroft could only watch as the policeman listened to whatever not good news was being said. Were he to place a bet, he would put money on it being about whatever trauma Sherlock had inflicted on his minders.

His expression remained remorseful as he ended the call. “I have to go, your brother is causing trouble and my sergeant is on the verge of shooting him.”

Money in the pocket.

As much as he was loathe to let the man walk away, Mycroft found himself cataloguing the way his muscles moved under his shirt. “Quite understandable. I will do what I can to locate your pilfered evidence.”

Lestrade nodded and pulled a slightly dog-eared card from inside his jacket. “Thank you Mr. Holmes, and thank you for letting me interrupt your morning tea.”

“As far as interruptions go, Detective Inspector, yours was most pleasant.”

He let his fingertips light graze the other man’s as he took the card. The flush that had died off was back and Mycroft soaked in the expanding pupils. Wonderful.

He flicked his eyes down to the card and controlled the smirk that wanted to grow.

“I will be in touch, Gregory.”


	2. Chapter 2

Rhythmic clicking of narrow heels on polished concrete heralded the approach of his assistant. The brisk stride spoke volumes on how unhappy she was at being disturbed earlier and Mycroft had little doubt that she would be taking it out on him.

He hoped the treat left on her desk would ease some of her ire. Operating with an antagonistic assistant was painful to say the least.

The footsteps paused by the desk outside his office, with the door open Mycroft heard the rustle of the packaging before she appeared in the doorway.

Anthea looked considerably more relaxed than she had yesterday afternoon, the interruption of her spa treatment hadn’t done serious damage.  She dangled the bag off two fingers.

“I’ve removed my number from your brother’s file.”

The first salvo.

He motioned to the chair opposite him and nudged an empty tea cup towards her.

“That would be wise.” Mycroft replied. Part of him hoped the Detective Inspector would call if Sherlock continued to be a nuisance. “The agents in charge of monitoring Sherlock need to be reassigned.”

“I believe the Manchester office needs some able bodies.”

His slight smile was all she would need as approval. “I will also need all footage and notes on Sherlock’s movements for the last twenty-four hours.”

“Anything in particular I should be looking for?”

He considered the ‘G’ he’d been tracing repeatedly into a notepad now dark and indented in the paper.  He really was outrageously taken with the handsome detective. “Any bolt holes he spent more than thirty minutes in.”

Thirty minutes was a stretch but Mycroft couldn’t be sure what the drugs had done to his brother’s mind or deductive reasoning. He had already seen several brilliant minds decayed by drug abuse. He would find it considerably upsetting if Sherlock joined their ranks.

“I will have the footage collated and ready for after your meeting, sir.”

Mycroft considered his next move carefully, not wanting to upset the fragile connection with Gregory Lestrade by overstepping or show his hand to Anthea.

“Thank you, can you also have Sherlock removed from New Scotland Yard’s holding cells when it looks as though someone is about to murder him.”

“Immediately sir?”

He smirked. “No, let him have some fun for a little longer. He will need to remain under surveillance once collected.”

“Shall I arrange for him to be admitted for treatment?”

Mycroft paused, sending Sherlock off to rehab once more may do more damage than good. His brother would go through the motions but as soon as he got out he would be in contact with the closest drug dealer that could provide the strength of narcotic he favoured. Within seventeen hours Sherlock would be eyeballs deep in whatever cocaine or heroin mixture he considered acceptable.

Mycroft had nightmares about finding his brother overdosed on a filthy mattress in a Brixton flop house. Again.

“No. Just have one of the competent agents keep watch for now.”

“Yes, sir. The Minister will be arriving in fifteen minutes.”

He nodded, smoothed down his tie and collected the necessary documents for his meeting. It was time to ruffle some feathers for the greater good.

 

 

Greg tapped his fingers against the open file on his desk. The body in the morning followed by apprehending Sherlock Holmes and the disruption that chased him, and then the oddly intense meeting with his brother, had left Greg with more questions than answers.

Primarily at the moment were; 1, who had killed Evelyn Morris? 2, What had Sherlock taken from the crime scene? and 3, What was his brother’s name?

The name in Sherlock’s file was listed only as M. Holmes and Greg was practically itching to work out the mysterious man’s name. He doubted that it was something regular like Michael or Mathew or Mark; with Sherlock as a brother and that bearing it would be something unique.

Milton? Maxwell? Magnus?

He shook his head at his own preoccupation with the man, whatever it was he hoped he would have a chance to meet him again. If he read the encounter correctly, Holmes had been as interested in Greg as he was back. There was really no other way to explain how Holmes had watched him eat and the strawberry flush on his cheeks when he was caught.

So long as Sherlock wasn’t the murderer then he just might be able to score a date with the man.

That brought him to questions 1 and 2. Why would Sherlock kill a mother of two from Leister? And if he didn’t, why did he take items from the crime scene?

None of the interviews with Sherlock had gone well, Sergeant Donovan completely refused to deal with him now and Sergeant Barr had threatened to punch the kid if he opened his mouth one more time. Greg’s conversation with him had been uncomfortable as he had twitched his way through Greg’s recent history.

He looked down at the crime scene photos. Morris didn’t have any prior charges for drug offences; there wasn’t a trace of her in the system for anything more than a speeding ticket.

So why would she be with an obviously drugged out man? It hadn’t been a robbery, all her jewellery and money was on the body. He doubted that Morris had suddenly decided to dabble in drugs at forty-six, or that Sherlock could be a dealer – he had junkie written all up his arms.

If Sherlock had killed her, why had he come back with her blood still on his hands and clothes?

The case didn’t match up and Greg knew he’d have to spend more than a few nights looking over CCTV recordings and reading statements until the clues slotted together.

Standing and stretching out his sore back, Greg grabbed his coffee cup and made for the kitchen. Instinct told him that Sherlock wasn’t the killer but he had no evidence at this early stage that the kid was innocent either.

They needed more information. He needed to know what Sherlock had been doing there.

Leaving his mug next to the sink, Greg turned around and headed for the cells. They had moved Sherlock into a solitary cell after the third officer had threatened to harm him; every now and then his voice would float through the door.

“BORED.”

Officer Ryan glared at the door as the man shouted again. Greg smothered his amusement and asked him to open the cell.

Sherlock rolled his eyes as Greg appeared in the doorway. “Dull.”

“When was your last hit?”

Blue eyes, made more stark by the sunken, bruised skin around them, watched him. “Ten hours ago.”

Greg nodded. “Are you starting to come down now?”

Greasy hair slapped at the wall. “Boring.”

“Not to me… Come on, let’s get you out for a bit.”

That caught the kid’s attention; his skeletal frame rose and dutifully held out his arms for cuffs. Lestrade suspected it would take very little effort for him to slip them considering how thin he was.

Ryan practically sighed in relief as Greg directed Sherlock away from the cells.

Those eyes, just a few shades away from his brothers’, watched the world as they passed through corridors. He seemed hungry to take in as much as possible. His brother’s comment on Sherlock enjoying being locked up made a little more sense.

Greg opened a door to a courtyard with no street access and the only way in or out was with a security card. There were a couple of benches, some plants and a small stretch of grass.

He dropped onto a bench. “Want something?”

Sherlock, who’d been investigating a small shrubbery, spun around. “Offering drugs to a junkie, Detective Inspector?”

Greg smirked as he pulled the battered packet from his pocket. “Only nicotine.”

His shoulders dropped. “I thought you were finally interesting.”

Greg rolled his eyes and offered the cigarettes. Sherlock didn’t hesitate to abscond with three and retreat back to the shrub.

The courtyard was quiet as Greg lit his cigarette and watched the junkie poke around the garden. “Can you tell me what happened to Mrs Morris?”

“She was stabbed.”

“How did you know her?” Greg held the lighter out and the young man lit his first cigarette.

“I didn’t.”

“Why were you covered in her blood?”

Sherlock heaved a sigh, smoke trailing from his lips. “Her blood was in the way as I was gathering materials.”

__Here we go__. “What did you take?”

“Small piece of aluminium, not certain it will be completely appropriate it had enamel on it. I should be able to separate the two but the risk of damaging the main piece is high.”

Greg watched as sunken eyes twitched from side to side frantically, the kid was still affected by whatever he’d taken and it was showing in his movements.

“What’s the metal for?”

“An experiment!” Sherlock declared. “I’m testing the effectiveness of easily obtained acids on various metals over lengths of time. I’m on boric acid and I have tested it on steel and iron and copper, next is aluminium and bronze. I ran out of aluminium.”

Greg sighed, junkie scientist disturbs crime scene to acquire testing materials. That certainly seemed like a plausible theory, kind of, one he wanted to believe over junkie kills woman in botched robbery.

“Do you have an alibi for the hours before you were arrested?”

Sherlock looked at him. “Would you accept the word of two homeless men?”

“Are they drug users?”

“Yes.”

“Then no, not reliable witnesses.”

Sherlock groaned and dropped onto the next bench. “You have access to CCTV, it’ll show that the woman’s babysitter killed her.”

__What__? “What babysitter?” He sent Donovan a text to hurry up with the rest of the video recordings.

“The one that followed her from Leister and is having an affair with her husband. She was in the crowd this morning, how did you all miss her?”

Greg could only blink at the man. “How could you know that? Did you see it?”

“Wedding ring, worn and slightly shiny, she’s been touching it, twisting it – worried about her marriage. Clothes and hair, styled younger and tighter than suits her age, suggests another woman is involved – probably younger. Bags of lingerie and perfume – she was preparing to fight for her marriage. Statistically 78% of men won’t break apart their marriage in favour of a mistress.”

He lit the second cigarette off the dying embers of the first.

“The same can’t be said for female cheaters, they tend to invest more emotionally in their affairs, making abandoning one relationship for another easier.”

Greg stared at the rambling man as the words his brother had said rolled through his mind. ‘ _ _Insatiable curiosity…an extraordinary mind__.’

“Sherlock, you worked all that out while stoned? What the hell is your brain like when you’re sober?”

An almost panicked light filled his face. “Busy and loud. Most people see but miss all the crucial details.”

“What do you do if there are no drugs?”

“Puzzles usually, when I’m stuck in whatever treatment facility my brother thinks will work this time.”

An idea bloomed, slightly dodgy and almost certainly likely to get him hauled into an IA investigation.

“Finish that, we’re going back.”

“I haven’t had my last one.”

“You can have it when you’re released. I’ll give you two more if it turns out you’re right.”

Sherlock reluctantly handed over his third cigarette and allowed Greg to herd him back to the cells. Ryan glared at him as he released Sherlock’s handcuffs and closed the cell door.

Greg ducked into his office and grabbed the folder holding one of their recently closed cold cases. Removing the final pages that detailed how they found the culprit, Greg packaged it up carefully and hurried back to the holding cells.

Officer Ryan had his head in his hands as Sherlock’s voice called, muffled, through the doors. Greg smothered a grin and motioned for the cell to be opened again.

Sherlock was lounging on the thin mattress, staring at the ceiling. His eyes tracked over Greg and down to the file in his hand, an interested expression flickered across his face.

“You like puzzles? If you can tell me who the killer is when I come back, I’ll give you another one.”

Sherlock took the offered folder and flipped through it. “You’ve already solved this.”

“I have. If you’re right I’ll give you another to work on.”

Blue eyes gleamed. “An unsolved one?”

“We can discuss it __if__  you’re right. I want to know you’re working out as well, no guessing.”

The man didn’t seem to hear his last words, attention focused on pulling pages out and studying scene photos.

Greg grinned to himself and exited the cell.

 

 

Surrounded by the detritus of his brother’s wasted life, Mycroft felt his chest ache. He’d tried to keep Sherlock out of trouble, tried to help him calm his mind, but it was all in vain. He had failed.

With latex gloves on his hands, Mycroft searched through the most recently disturbed areas, looking for anything with blood on it. The surveillance footage had shown Sherlock stumble across the deceased woman, snatch something small from a pool of blood and hurry away.

He found a make-shift chemistry set and surveyed what was obviously an attempt at experimentation in what Mycroft assumed must be the kitchen. A small vial of cloudy liquid was suspended over a cheap replica of the Eiffel Tower.

A set of blood-coated keys sat on the filthy bench nearby.

Pulling a small plastic evidence bag from his pocket, Mycroft collected the keys and deposited them in the bag. He would leave the keyring for Sherlock to continue experimenting with, and so his brother didn’t suspect that his home had been invaded; he proceeded with step two.

Mycroft called in Anthea, she had declined entering the flat until absolutely necessary. As it was she picked carefully across the floor, her high heels set down with precision.

“The replacements are ready, sir.” Her latex-gloved hand held out a set of bloodied keys that matched the size and colour of the ones now in plastic.

“On the table, if you would. In the dark stain.”

Anthea’s lip curled. “Half of the table is a dark stain.”

She arranged the new set of keys in place, meticulously setting them in position.

“May I suggest that we leave this place now, sir? I fear we will develop dysentery, if not some kind of herpes, if we remain much longer.”

Mycroft smirked, not able to deny the possibility. “Alert Hayes that we will be leaving momentarily. Have the Rundell file ready for me.”

A quick nod was her response before she retreated back to the safety of the car.

He hovered by the chair Sherlock obviously favoured. The fabric was faded and the cushions were worn in.

They had been quite close once; two bright minds in a dull grey world of regular people, Sherlock had liked to call them goldfish. The age difference hadn’t been an issue until Mycroft had gone away to University, a ten-year-old Sherlock hadn’t understood why his brother was suddenly gone. The child he’d returned to months later hadn’t been the same. By the time he’d finished University, Sherlock has been all but lost to him.

He thought about the young Sherlock he’d told Gregory about that morning. The precious five-year-old that would tell people their carefully hidden secrets in the middle of a full room, his face open and pleased with himself.

As much chaos as he caused, Mycroft couldn’t let go of that little face looking for praise. He hadn’t been able to give Sherlock enough, hadn’t been able to provide him the resources to channel his mind to less destructive avenues.

Sherlock wouldn’t have been happy with the career Mycroft had chosen but he could have made incredible advancements to science or contributed to philosophical circles. He had to potential to change the world if he wanted to; the blissful quiet of a silent mind was the clear winner in Sherlock’s case, a chance to escape the constant barrage of information that had gained him nothing but negative responses.

Mycroft sighed as he turned to leave the squalid hovel his brother chose to live in. Perhaps one day he would be able to reach the young man that had just wanted to be appreciated for his brilliance.

 

 

The unassuming brown card bag on his desk was nothing to catch Greg’s attention usually; he regularly requested evidence from downstairs for his open cases. This one had the unique addition of a business card paper-clipped to the folded top.

Greg carefully slid the card free; it was thick and felt expensive. The matte black was only broken by a subdued silver etching. __M. Holmes.__  The opposite side was a phone number.

Heart thumping in his chest, Greg tucked the card into his wallet and eased the bag open. Inside was a plastic evidence sleeve with a set of bloody keys, a sheaf of papers and a USB drive.

Emptying the contents onto his desk, Greg grabbed the papers.

__Detective Inspector Lestrade,_ _

__Evidence discussed in our meeting is included as is further surveillance to aid your case._ _

__Have a lovely day._ _

The pages behind the short note were chain of custody forms, all perfectly filled in and usable in the investigation.

Grabbing the USB stick, he plugged it into his laptop and loaded the video file. He watched as Morris entered the alleyway from an angle he hadn’t seen before.

“Sal!”

His sergeant popped her head through the door. “What?”

“Did we get the camera footage from the house across the street from the ally?

She shook her head. “No, the homeowner is out of the country. We haven’t managed to get hold of them.”

Greg waved her over and together they watched as a second woman came into the ally from the opposite direction and started a fight with their victim. Morris fell to the ground and her assailant fled back the way she came. A few minutes later Sherlock appears, scoops the keys into his hands and walks off.

“Sir, how…?”

He passed her the note that had been attached to the papers.

“Who the hell is that freak related to?”

“Someone who can pull more strings than we can.” Greg picked up his desk phone and dialled. “Gear up; we’re going to talk to the babysitter.”


End file.
